Seasons Spring
by CaptainGreet
Summary: [1/4] The seasons change, and nature's violence takes its toll. Daryl is swept away by a flash flood and badly injured. [Finished, One-Shot]


Spring

 _Flashflood_

For days, the spring rain beat down on Alexandria, completely washing out the earth and basking the civilization in a complete fog. After a hard, painful winter, the last thing the Alexandrians wanted was another era of darkness.

After a week of straight pouring, a glimmer of sunlight bore through the storm clouds above. Rick stepped out, baby Judith snuggled in his arms and against his chest. Carl stepped at his side, shutting his eyes as he let the first rays of sun bask against his skin. It was like being baptised- a new era, a new wave washing over the town. Well, for all except Daryl.

Daryl loved the rain, as much as he could love something so miniscule. No one, namely Carol or Rick, couldn't question him holing up inside, focusing on tending to his crossbow and picking at fresh game. Hunting in the rain had been refreshing- the white noise giving him an advantage over unsuspecting deer and squirrel. Depressing as it was, the rain gave Daryl protection and warmth. It was fresh, cleansing. He had been dampened to see it pass.

When Rick approached him, inviting him to go on a run, he wasn't surprised or pleased. He had planned on gutting and dressing a deer he caught the day before, but then again, he knew supplies were teetering as everyone was holed up the entire week.

Reluctantly, Daryl agreed to accompany Rick on his run. That morning, the sun gleaming and air humid, the two men set out in Spencer's car, packing some extra weapons in the trunk. For the past few runs, they had been stretching the grid by ten miles minimum. With each trip outside the walls, they were out longer and went further out into uncharted territory. It was dangerous, yes, but people were itching for more supplies, and Rick wasn't one to decline the call of the masses.

By high noon, Rick and Daryl passed their last checkpoint. Rick sat behind the wheel, keeping his eyes peeled forward as he kept watch for anything worth stopping for. Daryl had begun to doze off in the passenger seat, feet kicked up on the dashboard, smearing mud against the windshield.

"Look alive," Rick called, braking and pulling the car off the road and onto the grass.

Daryl stirred with a deep grumble, sitting up in his seat. He glared ahead, eyes falling on a log cabin turned off a gravel intersection. "Think that's worth while?"

"First building I've seen in miles. Worth a shot, I think."

"Fair 'nough," Daryl puffed as he climbed out of the car, slinging his crossbow against his back. Rick took the lead, hand on his sheathed python. He approached the cabin cautiously, Daryl following close behind.

Daryl picked off a staggering Walker emerging from the forest-line with his buck-knife, wiping the gore away with his red do-rag. Rick didn't have to glance back as Daryl took the Walker down. Two the two men, lone Walkers were simply mosquitoes- simply pests making their day-to-day life slightly more irritating. But in groups- they were hurricanes of devastation and fear to their family.

Daryl wasn't afraid of Walkers. Merle hadn't been either, when it really came down to it. Daryl feared what the Walkers would do to his family, the people he fought and nearly died for time and time again, but he never feared the Walkers themselves. He'd sit on his bike, a horde trailing right behind him, and he felt nothing. At this point, he'd laugh at himself he went down via Walker. It was like dying taking a shit back in the old days. Embarrassing as hell, especially for a Dixon. He wanted to go out fighting- not writing and panting as fever took over him, completely helpless and at the mercy of the world.

"Daryl?"

"What?"

"Mind helping me busting this door open?" Rick asked, his brow knitted tightly.

He hadn't realized Rick had started talking to him, let alone that they reached the cabin's front porch. He nodded, pressing his heel against the door before pulling back, kicking the knob with all his might. He could've sworn he pulled a muscle, funny enough, but luckily the door burst open, the wood damp and rotting. "Could'a done it yourself."

"It's more fun watching," Rick joked, shoving Daryl by the shoulder as he passed Daryl and stepped in the cabin.

It was only one room wide, save for a half-bath stowed in the far left corner. There were blood smears across the floors and walls, but no sign of Walkers or the living. Flies swarmed the center of the room, gnawing and preying on a dead bird in the center of the cabin. A hole in the ceiling, Daryl noted, was most likely how the poor animal got trapped in this hell-hole. Besides a well-kept axe lodged into the wall, there seemed to be nothing promising in the cabin. Daryl kept by the doorway, crossbow at the ready as Rick ventured inside, turning over sofa cushion in hopes to find anything edible. After rummaging through boxes and up-turning several cans of empty dog food, Rick came up empty handed. He sighed and dropped a can of spoiled beans in defeat, walking back towards Daryl.

"Nothing," he murmured, wiping the sweat from his brow. Rick stared at Daryl, his eyes narrow, and Daryl couldn't help but internally squirm as the leader stared him down.

"Told ya it might not be worth it," Daryl argued, leaning against the cabin's porch bannister.

Rick shut the splintered door behind him, leaning on the rail besides the archer. "Always have to get the last word, don't ya?"

Daryl balked at him. "What the hell are you on about?"

"I'm joking, Daryl," Rick laughed, straightening up and pulling up at his sleeves.

Daryl scoffed. "Some joke, Grimes. Let's get goin'."

RIck rolled his eyes with amusement, putting his python away in his holster and trekking back towards the car. Daryl lagged behind, his eyes locked on the forest-line. His ears focused on different sounds: a snapping twig far off, strong rustling of leaves, and...was that running water?

Daryl stopped in his tracks, staring off toward the trees. "Rick," he called in a whisper, creeping towards the trees. "Ya hear that?"

Rick turned, standing close behind the hunter. "Hear what, Daryl?"

Silence fell between them as Daryl knelt low, crossbow raised. "It's running water. Too strong to be no creek. It's a river. A strong one."

"How can you be sure?"

Daryl glanced back at Rick as if he had just insulted his mother. "Been hunting for as long as I could walk. Know what a damn river sounds like. If there's a river, there's fresh water."

"It's not worth the risk- Daryl!"

Before Rick could dissuade him, the archer was already marching into the woods, his bow at the ready and steps careful. Rick cursed under his breath and jogged after Daryl, shaking his head.

Silently, Rick and Daryl crept through the woods, the sound of rushing water increasing as they drew closer. The sun, already setting as time dragged, became shrouded in clouds, and Rick hissed as he looked up. Rain started to lightly drizzle down. Daryl didn't flinch, continuing to creep through the woods.

"Damn… Just when the rain stopped," Rick cursed, stepping over a large tree root. "Daryl, we really should turn back. The car'll get trapped in the mud, and we won't be able to pull out."

"Cross that bridge when we get to it," Daryl snapped. "Now quit talkin' or every Walker in a three mile radius will hear ye' hollerin'."

Rick didn't have a good feeling about their escapade, but he knew changing Daryl's mind was like like ramming down a steel wall with a wooden hammer. Useless.

* * *

When they approached the river, Rick felt as if his blood was roaring in his ears. It was huge- nearly 200 feet wide. The water, dark and murky, violently thrashed against the river basin, tearing small trees and pockets of earth down with its strong current. The light drizzle had turned into pouring rain, and Rick could barely see the other side of the river.

Daryl was ahead of him, kneeling dangerously close to the roaring river bed.

"Daryl!" He called over the sound of the river and the rain. "It's a flash flood- and it's only going to get worse if this rain won't let up! We need to get outta here!"

The archer seemed to hear his call, and he stood, turning completely to face Rick. As he took a step forward, the muddy earth below his feet gave away into mush, washing him into the current. He let out a wounded cry as his knees and shins skidded across rocks and crumbling earth, the current wrapping quickly around him and dragging him off. In a panic, blinded by muddy water and rain, Daryl latched onto a tree root. "Agh!"

"Daryl! Shit!" RIck bounded forward, careful to keep his footing and not fall in after Daryl. He reached out, but the current already pushed his friend back. His heart plummeted into the bottom of his gut, completely horrified. "Daryl!"

He lost sight of the hunter as a giant wave of murk slapped against him, pulling him under, and dragging him with the intense current. Rick couldn't see his friend anymore.

"Daryl!"

Rick bounded down the side of the river, losing all care with his footing. He ran, his heart beating and throbbing in his throat. Logically, he knew he couldn't outrun the current by any means, but his emotions got the best of him as he sprinted after his right-hand-man.

He didn't know how long he ran for, but it was night when he collapsed, his knees completely limp under his weight. He fell onto his hands and knees, wheezing as the rain beat mercilessly down onto his back, The river roared at his right, tricking him and making him hear Daryl's voice crying out for help. He knew it wasn't real, but he stared at the flood, hoping and praying for a greasy head of brown to pop out of the river, completely unscathed.

Rick knew it was impossible. But hope was all he had.

* * *

He couldn't breathe. Water filled his lungs and burned at his nostrils, mud caking his face, blocking his ears, mouth, and eyes. His chest burned horrifically, as if hot irons were shoved in his lungs and down his throat. He tumbled and thrashed, rocks lining the bottom of the river scraping across his back and arms. The current threw him violently, giving him a short burst of air before dragging him back under with malevolence.

He thought of Merle in that moment, perhaps his subconscious' way of escaping the situation, just as it had when he was younger, and he found himself at the mercy of his father's belt. Daryl had been 10, Merle 17, when Merle nearly killed Daryl by trying to drown him in a lake. Sure, he hadn't intended to kill his brother, rather rattle him into learning how to swim and 'grow a pair', as the less-tact red-neck would put. He'd give anything to be in that moment again. Although his lungs burned just the same, he knew Merle was on the other side, and wouldn't let him drown. This current didn't care. It despised him, wished him dead. As if it took out all he did in one fell-swoop: getting Beth killed, not finding Sophia, letting Merle die.

He deserved this. He deserved to die, suffocating and suffering like he was.

He felt warmth on his face. Dead, he predicted, but the sharp stabbing pain in the small of his back nagged him away from the thought. This wasn't death- this wasn't heaven, and hell, this wasn't hell either. Every breath that rattled through him was agony, his lungs spluttering as liquid pooled in his mouth. He couldn't move- couldn't see: He could only lay there as he started to suffocate. Warm, sticky liquid pooled down his temple and neck, a substance Daryl vividly recognized as blood.

A groan escaped his lips as his sensations began to return in numb waves. He heard the distant rushing of water, as if the sound was trapped in his mind, echoing. He felt water nipping at his legs and waist, the freezing cold water sending tremors through his body that he couldn't control. HIs head throbbed, and some outer light stung at his shut eyelids.

His hearing pulsed, but a distant groan send every nerve end blazing with adrenaline. His eyes snapped open, ignoring the intense pain as the light stabbed at him like hot daggers. He rolled onto his side, a pained yell rolling from his lips as his entire body exploded in agony.

The wounded archer ducked and rolled to his knees, every muscle and nerve in his body protesting. The walker staggered a few feet ahead, its gut entirely hollow and rotting. It growled excitedly as it staggered toward Daryl, no doubt looking to sink it's teeth into his bleeding arms and head.

Daryl felt around in the shallow water, knowing the chances of finding his crossbow were nill. His hand curled around a disfigured tree root, and with every last bit of strength in his body, brought the branch down on the walker's head, rapidly driving its head into the mud with the blunt point. Blood splattered into the water and onto Daryl's face.

He fell back, panting in agony as pain crashed into him like a eighteen-wheeler. His breath came in trembling gasps, river water pooling out of the corner of his mouth as he started to heave. His fingertips felt numb, and he could barely feel his legs, the limbs completely dead and tingly.

He lay there for what felt like hours. The sun stood right above him as he fully came sound of water tremendously calmed, and the monstrous roar slowed to soft white noise, much to Daryl's pleasure. Squinting against the sun, Dary took in his surroundings. He was washed up on a basin at the river's bend. His arms were scraped and bloody, mud caked into the wounds. No doubt that would get infected eventually. A searing pain shuddered through his chest with each shallow breath he swallowed. A broken rib, most likely.

Daryl grasped at the mud, pulling himself away from the river. He used a boulder to pull himself up, his legs shaking tremendously under his weight.

"Shit," he growled, leaning against the rock to catch his breath. He looked around, completely lost as to where he was, which was a new and shocking experience to Daryl.

He was way off the map. No doubt Rick gave up and turned back, and he wouldn't blame the man. He had a girlfriend and baby at home. He couldn't risk that over someone like Daryl, especially in such extreme circumstances. If it had been anyone else, Daryl had no doubt they would've died in the current, but Daryl had a talent for being hard to kill, even at his own damn expense.

He'd been stranded alone before, hurt more than he was now. He could get back on his own. He didn't need Rick.

* * *

Night had come quickly, and Daryl had barely made any progress in his trek back upstream. He was hurt far more than he originally thought, much to Daryl's dismay. He could barely walk without his ankle giving out, and could barely breathe without his lungs spasming and chest constricting. Shivers and tremors tore through his body violently, completely rattling his frame.

He sat against a tree, eating a handful of berries he stumbled upon in haste. He could only think of how royally screwed he was. Without Rick, or anyone, he realized, he was utterly useless. He couldn't walk, hell, he could barely get a breath out.

Daryl's vision started to swim, unable to focus on the scenery in front of him. For the first time, fear struck at his chest and shook down his limbs. No, he wasn't afraid of Walkers. He wasn't afraid of survivalist assholes looking to raid their supplies. He was afraid of being alone. He was afraid of being alone like this, helpless and in pain, at the mercy of the world. At the mercy of himself.

"Daryl?"

Daryl jerked, eyes wide and hazy through pain and alarm. A sharp intake of breath stabbed at his chest, and he dug his palms into the mud, propelling himself back. His ribs screamed in pain, arms shaking as he desperately clawed away from the dark, blurry figure above him. A feral grow slipped passed his bared teeth as, what he assumed was a hand, reached out toward him. He was utterly defenseless: walker or not. Daryl's first instinct was to fight, to try and get away, but the blurry hand latched onto his shoulder, the other gripping the nape of Daryl's neck. He yelled out in fury, bucking and punching.

"Daryl! Daryl! Easy," a familiar voice hushed. Daryl slumped into the hands, both of them now holding both sides of his face. They were warm, chasing away the persistent cold nipping at his skin. He felt his body's trembling start to subside.

"Rick?"

The man's face came into focus: knitted, troubled eyebrows overshadowing dark, worried eyes. He was staring down at Daryl, kneeling before him and lightly tapping at his cheek. The tension in Rick's eyes visibly lifted, his eyes nearly tearing up in what Daryl thought was relief. Rick pulled Daryl closer to his chest, rubbing and slapping at his back. Daryl could only groan in pain.

Rick held Daryl out again at arms length, looking him over for bites, no doubt.

"Ain't bit," Daryl grumbled, struggling to keep his eyes open.

Rick's face saddened as he kept a hand on Daryl's shoulder, taking in his battered appearance. "That's not what I care about right now. You alright? Thought I had lost you for sure."

He couldn't help but bitterly laugh, despite the pain poking at his chest and head. "Why'd you come back then?"

Daryl let his eyes slip shut. He couldn't see Rick's face, but he knew the man's demeanor changed, hearing him shift from his place in front of Daryl to his side. He heard his close friend sigh, most likely assessing how he'd get them out of this bullshit situation that Daryl had gotten them in. It was his fault after all, stupidly disobeying Rick and getting too close to the river. Daryl of all people had to know how dangerous flash floods were, especially after nearly a straight week and a half of rain. He deserved to be out here alone, dying of starvation and exposure. Rick wasn't supposed to have come after him. No one ever did before.

"Daryl?"

"What?"

"You with me?"

Daryl nearly flinched in realization. When had he gotten up and started moving? They were walking, Daryl leaning heavily against Rick as they struggled back up the riverside, the mud sliding under their feet. Every step felt like a ripple of agony through his body, ankle screaming and skull begging for mercy as a migraine stabbed mercilessly at him. Rick had Daryl's arm slung over his own damp shoulder, his other arm wrapped gently around his waist. It was far from comfortable, but Rick was the only reason that Daryl managed to stay upright. Even with Rick's support, he was staggering and tripping on nearly every dip in the earth. It was humiliating, being so vulnerable in front of a man he respected and considered a friend.

"'M with ya," he panted, letting his head hang in misery. "How far out are we?"

Rick adjusted his grip, pressing painfully against Daryl's side. "Not too long until we get to the car. We'll get back to Alexandria, have Denise fix you up, and you'll be fine."

"I _am_ fine," Daryl snapped, weakly glaring up at Rick, who simply smirked in return.

"You're not," Rick paused. "But that's okay. You will be."

* * *

After what felt like hours, long torturous hours, Rick and Daryl emerged from the woods, hobbling toward the car abandoned at the roadside. Daryl was alarmed to see it exactly where they had parked the day before. Rick hadn't left. Why hadn't Rick gone back first?

"They'll be wondering where we are," Rick offered, struggling to guide Daryl through the lingering darkness, as night began to fall. "Best to head straight back before they send out any more people."

Daryl's head bounded. He swore he could feel blood pooling from his ears. "How long have we been out here?"

"Two days, I think," Rick replied with a wince, approaching the car. He left Daryl to lean on the front hood as he ran around to open the passenger door.

Ears red, Daryl hobbled over to the door, whacking away Rick's hand as he painfully climbed into the passenger seat. The archer scrunched his eyes shut, his head not quitting its insesent pounding. He leaned his forehead against the window, the cool glass soothing the ache. He vaguely recognized the noise of Rick clambering into the driver's seat, starting the car. His ankle throbbed as the blood rushed down to his foot. He had tried to prop it up onto the dashboard as he had before, but his body was entirely too sore. For the first time since waking up in the mud, Daryl really felt the extent of the damage. His ankle was most likely broken, as well as a few ribs, if he was lucky. Breathing came with difficulty, but Daryl hoped that was more on account of exhaustion and soreness than a collapsing lung. His arms and back were scraped to holy hell, mud caked into the lacerations.

Daryl sat forward with a start, his chest heaving and eyes wide as Rick started to pull back out onto the road.

Rick nearly spun out, staring at Daryl in shock and fear. "You alright?"

"M' crossbow...Lost it in the river. Shit-!"

Rick shook his head, gesturing to the back seat. "Found it washed up before I found you. Couldn't just leave it there."

Daryl slumped back into the seat, sighing in relief. "Thanks, brother."

The weight of what Daryl said crashed down onto his already aching chest. He choked on his words, eyes locking onto his fingers as he desperately fumbled with the edge of his torn-up shirt. He couldn't see, but Rick was smiling at him.

"You're welcome, brother."


End file.
